by Al Capone and Bugs Moran
photo by biblioarchives, edited by Zoe Haddad
So ya wanna please that broad of yours, ey? Hah. Good luck. Johnny’s been pleasing her for months. You old babbo. But hey, we’re all human, right? Fine. Forgiven. Done. We’ll help you. So here’s what ya gotta do.
Broads Want A Piece of Your Heart
Ya gotta get a body. Because broads love love. Very sentimental they are. They want your heart. So give her a piece of your heart. Or some other guy’s heart. What’s the difference. Get your saw and cut slowly yet rigid into the sternum. That guy’s gonna be dead no matter what.
But that doesn’t mean his body don’t deserve no respect. You respect that body or so help me I’ll grab you by the—hey, hey, hey Bugsy, relax. Don’t scare ‘em off. Sorry, Al. Okay, you’re right. Fine. All is forgiven. So as we’s were saying, to cut through the pericardium is very simple. Should not be a problem.
The next thing is to get that heart outta that body. This again, is very simple, given you follow this exact manual. Take your feeble little dainty lady-hands and grab that heart like it’s your newborn babe.
That’s it. Done. Put it in a box, bada bing bada boom throw that body into the LA river buy your gal a dozen roses and you’re gonna be on your way to a decently happy broad.
Do A Little Role Playing
Yous gotta dress up and be a man for once in your life, Christ. Make her feel protected by the secure arms of the “law” and dress up in a police uniform. That will really get her all hot and bothered. Do not forget a shotgun as I, Al, always says, you can get much farther in bed with a kind word and a gun than you can with a kind word alone. Mark my words.
Nothing’s sexier than an “optometrist,” so say things like you know some stuff about eyes. Such as, “My, what beautiful eyes you have, darling. It appears as though you do not need any sort of glasses for your impeccable vision, even though you must look upon my hideous face every day.”
Broads love the ruggedness of a “mechanic,” so show up to bed with a little grease on your face from the car you did not steal last week.
That’s it. We’re done here. Done. Finito.
Written by Zoe Haddad